Almost Heaven (35 page)

Closing the box, Elizabeth put it back beside the wall where she’d found it, smiling at the skull and crossbones. Without her realizing what had happened, her heart had softened yet more toward a boy who’d carried his dreams up here and hidden them in a treasure chest. And the fact that the boy had become a man who was frequently cold and distant had little effect on her tender heart. Untying the scarf from her hair, Elizabeth put it around her waist; then she slid the sketchbook between the makeshift belt and her gown and slid the ring onto her thumb, for want of anywhere else to keep it while she climbed down.

Ian, who’d been coming toward the yard from the woods to the west, had seen Elizabeth walk around the tree and vanish. Leaving the game he’d shot at the barn, he started for the house, then changed his direction and headed for the tree.

With his hands on his hips he stood beneath the tree, looking down the mossy slope that led to the stream, his forehead furrowed in a puzzled frown as he wondered how she’d scrambled down the incline fast enough to disappear. High overhead branches began to rustle and sway, and Ian glanced up. At first he saw nothing, and then what he did see made him doubt his vision. A long, shapely bare leg was poking out of the branches, toes feeling about for a sturdy branch on which to begin a descent. Another leg joined it, and the pair of them seemed to hang there, levitating.

Ian started to reach up for the hips to which the legs would surely be attached somewhere further up in the leaves, then he hesitated, since she seemed to be managing well enough on her own. “What in hell are you doing up there?” he demanded.

“Climbing down, of course,” Elizabeth’s voice said from among the leaves. Her right toes wiggled, reaching for the wooden step and finally touching it; then, as Ian looked on, still ready to catch her if she fell, she shimmied down the branch a bit more and got the toes of her left foot on the step.

Amazed by her daring, not to mention her agility, Ian was about to back away and let her finish descending unaided when the rotted step on which she stood gave way. “Help!” Elizabeth cried as she came plunging out of the tree into a pair of strong hands that caught her by the waist.

Her back to him, Elizabeth felt her body slide down Ian’s hard chest, his flat stomach, and then his thighs. Embarrassed to the depths of her soul by her clumsy egress, by the boyhood treasures she’d discovered while snooping in the tree house, and by the odd feelings that shook through her at the intimate contact with him, Elizabeth drew a shaky breath and turned uneasily to face him. “I was snooping in your things,” she confessed, lifting her green eyes to his. “I hope you won’t be angry.”

“Why should I be angry?”

“I saw your sketches,” she admitted, and then, because her heart was still filled with the lingering tenderness of her discovery, she continued with smiling admiration, “They’re wonderful, truly they are! You should never have taken up gambling. You should have been an artist!” She saw the confusion that narrowed his eyes, and in her eagerness to convince him of her sincerity she pulled the sketchbook from her “belt” and bent down, opening it carefully on the grass, smoothing the pages flat. “Just look at this!” she persisted, sitting down beside the sketches and smiling up at him.

After a moment’s hesitation Ian crouched down beside her, his gaze on her entrancing smile, not the sketches.

“You aren’t looking,” she chided him gently, tapping the first sketch of the young girl with her tapered fingernail. “I can’t believe how talented you are! You captured everything in the tiniest detail. Why, I can almost
feel
the wind blowing on her hair, and there’s laughter in her eyes.” His gaze shifted from her eyes to the open sketchbook, and Elizabeth watched in shock as he glanced at the sketch of the young girl and pain slashed across his tanned features.

Somehow Elizabeth knew from his expression that the girl was dead. “Who was she?” she asked softly. The pain she’d imagined vanished, and his features were already perfectly composed when he looked at her and quietly answered, “My sister.” He hesitated, and for a moment Elizabeth thought he wasn’t going to say more. When he did, his deep voice was strangely hesitant, almost as if he was testing his ability to talk about it: “She died in a fire when she was eleven.”

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth whispered, and all the sympathy and warmth in her heart was mirrored in her eyes. “Truly sorry,” she said, thinking of the beautiful girl with the laughing eyes. Reluctantly pulling her gaze from his, she tried lamely to lighten the mood by turning the page to a sketch that seemed to vibrate with life and exuberant joy. Seated on a large boulder by the sea was a man with his arm around a woman’s shoulders; he was grinning at her upturned face, and her hand was resting on his arm in a way that somehow bespoke a wealth of love. “Who are these people?” Elizabeth asked, smiling as she pointed to the sketch.

“My parents,” Ian replied, but there was something in his voice again that made her look sharply at him. “The same fire,” he added calmly.

Elizabeth turned her face away, feeling a lump of constricting sorrow in her chest.

“It happened a long time ago,” he said after a moment, and reaching out slowly, he turned to the next sketch. A black Labrador looked back from the pages. This time when he spoke there was a slight smile in his voice. “If I could shoot it, she could find it.”

Her own emotions under control again, Elizabeth looked at the sketch. “You have an amazing way of capturing the
essence
of things when you sketch, do you know that?”

His brows lifted in dubious amusement, then he reached out and turned the other pages, pausing when he came to a detailed sketch of a four-masted sailing ship. “I intended to build that one someday,” he told her. “This is my own design.”

“Really?” she said, looking as impressed as she felt.

“Really,” he confirmed, grinning back at her. Their faces only inches apart, they smiled at each other; then Ian’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and Elizabeth felt her heart begin to pound with helpless anticipation. His head bent imperceptibly, and Elizabeth knew, she
knew
he was going to kiss her; her hand lifted of its own accord, reaching toward his nape as if to draw him down to her; then the moment was abruptly shattered. Ian’s head lifted sharply, and he stood up in one smooth motion, his jaw rigid. Stunned, Elizabeth hastily turned to the sketchbook and carefully closed it. Then she, too, stood up.

“It’s getting late,” she said to cover her awkward confusion. “I’d like to bathe in the stream before the air turns chilly. Oh, wait,” she said, and carefully she pulled the ring from her thumb, holding it out to him. “I found this in the same box where the sketches were,” she added, putting it in his outstretched palm.

“My father gave it to me when I was a boy,” he said in an offhand voice. His long fingers closed around it, and he slipped it into his pocket.

“I think it may be very valuable,” Elizabeth said, imagining the sorts of improvements he could make to his home and lands if he chose to sell the ring.

“As a matter of fact,” Ian drawled blandly, “it’s completely worthless.”

CHAPTER 16

To Elizabeth the meal they shared with the vicar that night was a period of mystified torment. Ian conversed with his uncle as if absolutely nothing of import had happened between them, while Elizabeth’s mind tortured her with feelings she could neither understand nor vanquish. Every time Ian’s amber gaze flickered to her, her heart began to pound. Whenever he wasn’t looking she found her gaze straying to his mouth, remembering the way those lips had felt locked to hers yesterday. He raised a wineglass to his lips, and she looked at the long, strong fingers that had slid with such aching tenderness over her cheek and twined in her hair.

Two years ago she’d fallen under his spell; she was wiser now. She
knew
he was a libertine, and even so her heart rebelled against believing it. Yesterday, in his arms, she’d felt as if she was special to him – as if he not only wanted her close but needed her there.

Very vain, Elizabeth, she warned herself severely, and very foolish. Skilled libertines and accomplished flirts probably made every woman feel that she was special. No doubt they kissed a woman with demanding passion one moment and then, when the passion was over, forgot she was alive.

As she’d heard long ago, a libertine pretended violent interest in his quarry, then dropped her without compunction the instant that interest waned – exactly as Ian had done now. That was not a comforting thought, and Elizabeth was sorely in need of comfort as twilight deepened into night and supper dragged on, with Ian seemingly oblivious to her existence. Finally the meal was finished; she was about to volunteer to clear the table when she glanced at Ian and watched in paralyzed surprise as his gaze roved over her cheek and jaw, then shifted to her mouth, lingering there. Abruptly he looked away, and Elizabeth stood up to clear the table.

“I’ll help,” the vicar volunteered. “It’s only fair, since you and Ian have done everything else.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Elizabeth teased him, and for the fourth time in her entire life she tied a towel around her waist and washed dishes. Behind her the men remained at the table, talking about people Ian had evidently known for years. Although they’d both forgotten her presence, she felt strangely happy and content listening to them talk.

When she finished she draped the dishtowel on the handle of the door and wandered over to sit in a chair near the fireplace. From there she could see Ian clearly without being observed. With no one to write to but Alex, and little she could risk saying in a letter that might be seen by Ian, Elizabeth tried to concentrate on descriptions of Scotland and the cottage, but she wrote desultorily, her mind was on Ian, not the letter. In some ways it seemed wrong that he lived here now, in this solitary place. At least part of the time he ought to be walking into ballrooms and strolling into gardens in his superbly tailored black evening clothes, making feminine heartbeats triple. With a wan inner smile at her attempted impartiality, Elizabeth told herself men like Ian Thornton probably performed a great service to society – he gave them something to stare at and admire and even fear. Without men like him, ladies would have nothing to dream about. And much less to regret, she reminded herself.  

Ian had not so much as turned to glance her way, and so it was little wonder that she jumped in surprise when he said without looking at her, “It’s a lovely evening, Elizabeth. If you can spare the time from your letter, would you like to go for a walk?”

“Walk?” she repeated, stunned by the discovery that he was evidently as aware of what she was doing as she had been aware of him, sitting at the table. “It’s dark outside,” she said mindlessly, searching his impassive features as he arose and walked over to her chair. He stood there, towering over her, and there was nothing about the expression on his handsome face to indicate he had any real desire to go anywhere with her. She cast a hesitant glance at the vicar, who seconded Ian’s suggestion. “A walk is just the thing,” Duncan said, standing up. “It aids the digestion, you know.”

Elizabeth capitulated, smiling at the gray-haired man. “I’ll just get a wrap from upstairs. Shall I bring something for you, sir?”

“Not for me,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t like tramping about at night.” Belatedly realizing he was openly abdicating his duties as chaperon, Duncan added quickly, “Besides, my eyesight is not as good as it once was.” Then he spoiled that excuse by picking up the book he’d been reading earlier, and – without any apparent need for spectacles – he sat down in a chair and began reading by the light of the candles.

The night air was chilly, and Elizabeth pulled her wool shawl tighter around her. Ian didn’t speak as they walked slowly across the back of the house.

“It’s a full moon,” she said after several minutes, looking up at the huge yellow orb. When he didn’t reply, she cast about for something else to say and inadvertently voiced her own thoughts: “I can’t quite believe I’m really in Scotland.”

“Neither can I.” They were walking around the side of a hill, down a path he seemed to know by instinct, and behind them the lights from the cottage windows faded and then vanished completely.

Several silent minutes later they rounded the hill, and suddenly there was nothing in front of them but the darkness of a valley far below, the gentle slope of the hill behind them, a little clearing on their left, and a blanket of stars overhead. Ian stopped there and shoved his hands into his pockets, staring out across the valley. Uncertain of his mood, Elizabeth wandered a few paces to the end of the path on the left and stopped because there was nowhere else to go. It seemed colder here, and she absently pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, stealing a surreptitious look at him. In the moonlight his profile was harsh, and he lifted his hand, rubbing the muscles in the back of his neck as if he was tense.

“I suppose we ought to go back,” she said when several minutes had passed, and his silence became unsettling.

In answer Ian tipped his head back and closed his eyes, looking like a man in the throes of some deep, internal battle. “Why?” he said, still in that odd posture.

“Because there’s nowhere else to walk,” she answered, stating the obvious.

“We did not come out tonight to walk,” he said flatly.

Elizabeth’s sense of security began to disintegrate. “We didn’t?”

“You know we didn’t.”